


A Tree Falls In the Forest

by Apple



Category: Gravity Falls, Transcendence AU - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Transcendence, Character Death, End of the World, Gen, Trees
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-10
Updated: 2016-02-10
Packaged: 2018-05-19 12:27:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5967406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Apple/pseuds/Apple
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nothing lasts forever; not humans, not worlds, not even the Woodsman.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Tree Falls In the Forest

**Author's Note:**

> Oh, hey, look, Apple's writing at 2 AM again. This can only end well! 
> 
> In my defense, this wasn't supposed to be a fic. It started off as a tiny little shred of headcanon that wouldn't fit in the word limit for asks, but then I blinked and there were over a words with a very ficcish tone to them sitting in the submit box and I'd missed dinner. Ah, well.
> 
> Anyways, see if you guys can catch the Diane Duane reference.

The Earth dies.  
  
It is a sudden death, from the view of the planet itself. Yet to humanity and others who perceive time as they do, in short bursts of light and life and laughter, it is slow and ever-off on the horizon. The air curdles with smog, while loggers clear away the old forests tired, _so tired_ , from trying to make it breathable. In the wake of some of the devastation there are left seedlings, which in turn become saplings, which in turn become young trees that cannot meet the burden of their predecessors. With the loss of the old, old forests, magic comes loose from the soil, dwindling away or becoming scattered and diffuse. The beings that rely on that magic and the lost forests are left bereft, many dying.  
  
The Woodsman knows. The Woodsman feels every ax, for it is the wielder just as it is the downed trees.  

It is as it has always been. It is more than it could ever be.  

It will never be enough.  
  
As time passes the Woodsman gains power, not only as it always had—through age and the occasional righteous punishment—but by reaching out for the homeless powers. It is not meant for such power, no being could ever be, but still it reaches. For there are dryads and ents and things without names that need those forests, and if even something as mighty as the Woodsman cannot compete with this creeping world-death, so instead it must take on nature's dwindling power and become an old-growth forest itself: walking, watching, and far, far less physically expansive.  
  
For all the Forest/Woodsman's failings, for a time... it is _almost_ enough.  
  
The power seeped into the soil and trees of the land the Forest/Woodsman might have called home, if it still contained that seed of humanity from the soul that nurtured it, so very long ago. The woods of Gravity Falls, already laced in ancient magics—from other realms, from the stars, from forces that could have/would have/will stand as gods at the very end of all—become something unrecognizable. The mundane inhabitants of the woods watch strange humans with eyes that shine rather uncannily, paying no heed to natural laws such as those of predator and prey. Some forest rangers claim that there is a particular fox in the forest that will laugh if it sees a human, not a barking noise or a tail-lashing yip, but a human laugh. Sometimes rain falls below the treeline despite clear sunshine above it. Hikers and forest rangers regularly claim to see what looks like nothing so much as a slightly-run down old-fashioned house, which scrabbles along the fringes of some of the local mountains on great spidery limbs before its suddenly gone into mist or a stray sunbeam.  
  
Logging companies that send crews into the dense woods, despite protections based in the laws of men as well as those of far more dangerous beings, lose contact with their men in a matter of minutes. If the men are good at heart, or perhaps merely lucky, it is accepted that they will be seen again, that like previous would-be lumberjacks they will be found wandering the edges of the wood... eventually. Some would simply be dazed, others rattled enough to hop on the next local shuttle to Mars or one of the newer out-of-system colonies. Those who are not seen again—alive, at least—are generally of lesser character. Only certain lumberjacks descended from the Corduroy line can take a tree from the forest without being lost themselves, but their peculiar reputation—and flat-out refusal to poach the mighty old-growth trees deep in the wood—result in only the occasional failed attempt at negotiation or bribery from the large-scale companies.  
  
The woods grow crowded and riotous. Tropical rain-forest vines tangle with evergreen pines and cherry trees that blossom at the fall of the first snow. The dryads are hard-pressed to keep their trees from choking those of their neighbors, for every tree has a soul so near to the heart of such power. The old, precious trees in one particular place in the wood grow fruit, as they always have, but the fruit is just as likely to glimmer golden as anything else now, or take the form of screaming, jeering heads that bit off the tongues of any who tried to eat them.   
  
Still, the Forest—there is hardly anything left of the Woodsman, now, it is the Forest, it _must_ be the Forest—reaches for power. More, more, _more_. All but the most stubborn humans are decades-gone, but they've left their mess behind. With or without its most headstrong children, the planet will die.   
  
All around the Forest, there is Death. The Forest cannot keep it at bay forever. It cannot even keep Death at bay for an old-oak's heartbeat. It is being ravaged by the very power it so desperately gathered, for the power is as much Death as it is Life, and it knows it will soon be time for one to give over to the other.  
  
Yet still, it waits. Still, it reaches. There is no more power in the world that it can grab, but it has forgotten how to do anything else.  
  
Power drifts in front of the dying Forest, but it is a darkness, a hunger, and it cannot be held by green spaces and tangled, tumbled roots. Something stirs in the Forest, for in a world where only power and Life matters, this power seems like the light of a familiar star.   
  
"It's over."  
  
The Forest says nothing. The power settles itself in a clearing, floating above the fallen leaves with its limbs outstretched, a gnarled, twisted, _mighty_ tree of a being.  
  
"This is all that's left now." A pause, and the Forest feels that useless power take root in the world for a brief moment. Then, the other shakes itself and there is a sound like a breeze, like an ending. "Well, this and a couple of ghosts."  
  
The power's eyes are gold, ringed by a black darker than peat-dirt. Old eyes. Tired eyes. "I can't get you out."  
  
The Forest says nothing. The visitor bobs in the air, almost bird-like in its fidgeting.   
  
"I can save the people you've been sheltering, " it flutters, "the dryads, the ents, even the animals and plants. I can send them a planet that _isn't_ dying."   
  
"There's no world anymore, you know? There's a planet, sure, but the soul is go̵̜̰͇̩n̦̦̻͞e̷̞̠̭̳̣.̞͉̼͓͡"͍̗͕͍̜͠ The golden eyes have begun to glow, and the Forest feels itself stir and stretch towards the light instinctively.   
  
"What you are now, though, that's close enough that the husk has been using you as a substitute. But it's done. It's dying, and it's killing you, too. Or maybe it's the other way around. Maybe even both." It bares sharp teeth, two rows of them. "Trying to figure you out gave me the worst headache I've had in _centuries_."  
  
The creature turns away, and something drips, hissing and smoking on the dead leaves below. "̶I ͟k͏n͞o͏w͝ ͝you͘'re ҉not͜ him, y̡ou҉'r̡e ͘not eve̸n͞ th̀e W̡ood͏smaǹ anym҉o̢r͡e ̸and ̸he͢ w͜ąs͞n'̧t͠ him̷ ̛eit͠he̷r, ̲̼̜̖̣͢b̸u̯̼̼̪̰̱͢ͅt͔̹̜͔͚ͅ ͟ý̗̟o̖̮̙͎̞̤̮ụ͉̤͕͔͕̬'̲̣͔̜̝͕ŗe̜ ͉̪̗̗͙̝w̩͎͙̰h͍̞̩́ͅa͙̗̝̭̜̭͞t̵̟̦̠̟͙̱̼'̪̱̩̪͔ͅs̲ ̳̪̯͖̲l̤̲̳̀e҉͖̦̖͍̠f̠͉̱̼t̛̠̞̪̝.̢͚͇̱̘ ͙̥̟͉̜̗Yo͓̮̺u̯͖͙'͏ŕe͚͙͈̦̖ ̶̺͙͔̬w͓̗̭̬̹h͍̫̠͖͉̥̻à͈t͔̜̲̩͚͖̘͢'̷̮͉͉ş̫̱̲ ͚̦l̟͉e̝͚̘f̱̭̺͇̩͎͓t͚,̲̣͙ ͏͖͇̦̰ͅa̳̰̺n̴d͏̪͇̪̩̪̥ ̖̪̫͜y͍͙̭̮o̲̹u̴̥'̺͚r͉͙̤͙ͅe̲͞ ̫̲͎͎̪t̡̼̦͓h͉e ̢͚̠̣̮on̞ļy̨̩̠ ̘͓̮͕͍͍͙o͓͜ne̡͎͈͚͇ ̫̟̫̭͇͓ͅ ͏͈̺͎̜̦̀I̴̦͖̘͡ ͏̧̼̠c̢͡͏̺̘̣̯͙a̡͕̯ń̷̷̮̟̠̭'̷̴̨͓̗̩̣t̪̝͉̻ ̶̨̞̫̘s͙̪̳͉͓̙͍̙a̢̦͔v̧̩̠̩̦͙̺͎ͅe̝̫̹̤̱͢ͅ.͟͏̬̪̪̤"̷̱̦͇̳̯͚̝.̮͉̳͘"  
  
It growls. "I already knew this would happen. I knew, I _always_ know, but I still try and then I feel like— _argh_!" It gnashes it's many teeth and what it says next sounds, to the Forest, like hungry locusts, like laughing chainsaws, like disease and rot. It is the voice of the Kindler of Wildfires, of the Witherer, biding its time beneath ones own bark.  
  
The Forest says nothing. After a long, aching moment, the other wilts in the air.  
  
 "Sorry. It's just... it's frustrating. I've got all this power, but it's still not enough when it matters." Again, it utters that breeze-sound. "I guess it's enough for you, though, isn't it?" The power's eyes glitter, wildfire-bright. "You understand the price?"  
  
The Forest says nothing.  
  
The power flares as it stretches its branches towards the sky. Its skin cracks in patterns of golden light, brighter and brighter, and if the glow from its eyes had felt like sunlight this was truly the sun. It is horrible, it is glorious, and something in the Forest that _isn't_ the Forest sees the corona and cries out _I_ know _you—!_

 

* * *

 

The Forest is gone.   
  
The few remaining plants, which had been almost-dead for years before Alcor's arrival, seem almost relieved as they wilt, droop, and wither. Roots are tucked in, leaves dry up and drift to the ground, never again to be stirred by any animal or insect. Only the wind can still be heard as it races through the skeletons that had been left to rot on Earth. In the center of what had been Life, a being lifts its head. It looks around, almost curious, and is unsurprised at the feeling of emptiness.

Only, it is not alone. Not yet.  
  
It reaches upwards with what might have been an arm, and brushes against the twisting branches that crowned its head. Something soft brushes against the appendage, and it carefully dislodges the object and brings it down to examine.

Life flares, gutters, and grows dim in an instant  
  
The object is a flower, long-petaled and silky. The being recognizes the flower, although it had not grown them since it had been incubating. But there are no more dangling hands and feet, either. The Forest had had no need of those.  
  
The life in the flower surges once more, then peters out completely. The petals will soon wither and crack, but for now they remain soft and vibrant.  
  
The Woodsman smiles, and lets go.


End file.
